


Caliber Men

by aiokiifin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gangs, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Immigrants, M/M, Multi, Parent Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), Post-War, Post-World War I, Slow Burn, eruri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiokiifin/pseuds/aiokiifin
Summary: “You're a killer,” Erwin says as he loads the bullets into the cylinder. Time was running, it was do or die; and Levi has a son to keep in the dark. He notices the cold undercurrent in Erwin's tone. It makes him stare at his hands; bloodstained and filthy; just like the rest of him, just like the man who he was running from. “Bred, born, raised. You may habe escaped France, Levi, but the battlefield is not the only warzone. You cannot escape the war. That is the reality of your situation. ”
Relationships: Levi/Erwin Smith
Kudos: 21





	1. i

_1926 Liverpool, England_

Levi’s mind goes to his son, who was currently in Isabel’s care, and the way he dusted the grime off his coat before handing it to him; a timid smile etched on his freckle dusted face. He knew that it was the last thing he should be thinking about at a time like this, where his finger runs small circles along the button of his gun’s holster and the young man before him— _Billy, was it?_ —has a face that’s leaking like shit. Henri was seven years old now, yet Levi could swear that the boy was just as sly as Isabel, and that the small gesture was a way of discreetly making-up for a fault that Levi was yet to find out.

He holds a heavy sigh and instead inhales a long drag from his cigarette, his eyes cast to an invisible spot on the mahogany table. Perhaps he has left his son under Isabel’s care far too often, and maybe opting for Mrs Wembley from next door was not so bad of an idea. But Levi knows that he wouldn’t trust anyone with his son other than Isabel or Farlan (and occasionally Kenny if he’s with Uri), and from the way things seem, he’d be damned before he lets his son be one of those giddy, bubbly and messy little shits that Mrs Wembley’s grandchildren seem to be.

And he would rather not risk his son provoking other kids with his blatant honesty.

The smoke passes through his teeth and out of his mouth. _Maybe he broke another cup from the tea set_ , he thinks. Levi didn’t brew some tea before he left, so he wasn’t able to check the set.

Farlan’s questioning voice enters his hearing and his mind is brought back to the awareness of the transaction. The _Eightieth Bar_ fills with obnoxious laughter, blue-collared workers wasting the night, muffled by the door that conceals the three men by the cubicle’s table; downing cheap whiskey and smoking cigarettes. The men were drunk and the wives were nowhere to be seen; the night was half an hour towards a new day, after all. During nights like these, the bar was filthy, but the cubicle they were always in was reserved for transactions of Levi’s and his men, therefore cleaned up to a fair range in his standard. He regrets he might have to thank Uri Riess, who owned the bar – or rather the wharf and the coal depot – for blessing Levi with his conditions for the job; one of which, a meeting area that is exclusive to them. Levi was by no means needed in attendance in this particular transaction, having the job be from a regular client in the retired army, but seeing as it was dealt with an unfamiliar face, he supposed he could do fine with getting home a little late.

“I’s all of ‘em, Mr Church, sir,” Billy says, hands still nervously running over each other as it did when he first started talking about the shipment not ten minutes ago. He wasn’t one of their regular brokers, no. He was young, early to mid-twenties at most, jittery and nervous; too nervous for someone who was supposed to be a broker’s errand boy. He was clearly new to this job. “Mr Morris leaves a message, too. Says the, uh, the IRA wer’ eyein’ for those rifles. Best be careful, sir.”

Levi hums, crushing the bud of his cigarette on the ashtray, his fingers moving to drum a beat on the revolver in his holster. He was doubtful of the rookie, yet remains to look impassive. This deal was Farlan’s job, after all. And he was sure Farlan was already seeing through his bluff.

“That so?” he hears Farlan drawl, the sand-blonde man reaching towards his back pocket to fish out a banknote. Rarely does Farlan tip with a note, but usually it was done with the intention of getting it back. The young man’s eyes widen surprisingly at the bill, his nervousness thrown out the window as the rubbing of his hands ceases, probably not expecting to receive such a good end to his supposed deception. Farlan hands him the bill and he greedily accept it. He doesn’t notice Levi’s piercing glare and neither does he notice Farlan reaching to tap a pattern on the glass window.

Billy’s glee seems to remain as he’s forgotten that he’s in the room with cold blooded murderers. “’s there anything else ye need, gen’lemen?”

Farlan shakes his head as Levi says nothing. “No, no. Off you go, lad. Bugger off.”

“Alright, lar,” Billy replies. He walks his way towards the door, albeit hurrying. The noise from the bar momentarily slips in the silence that falls in the cubicle as young man steps out. From the sound of it, the drunks have slowly retired and made their way home, too. Levi only opens his mouth a few seconds after the door has closed.

“The Irish doesn’t play with Morris,” He stares at the closed doors, his voice heavily laced with his accent as his mother tongue easily slips from his mouth. Morris works for a lot of the folks in the cabinet and Levi doubts that the Irregulars feels comfortable with that knowledge and would probably rather go into war on bare-hands rather than dealing with any free state ass-kisser. But as far as Levi was concerned, business is business. “And I doubt the IRA would fuck with Uri. After all, he’s their ticket out.”

“Scapegoat,” Farlan replies, “You know how amateurs are these days,” The mastered French easily folds on his tongue yet drips with his English origin. He tosses his head back as he empties his glass of whiskey, nose scrunching up from the taste. He never was a huge fan of whiskey. “I had Jan follow him to get that pound back.”

Levi doesn’t want to believe that Farlan is actually letting this thievery slide, so he comments “Jan doesn’t carry anything but his fists.”

Farlan says nothing to that, simply smoothing out his waistcoat as he reaches for his blazer. Though, as he senses Levi’s burning gaze on his back, he sighs. “He’s young, Levi. Let him learn from this. No need to pop a bullet in his head.”

Levi grunts a response, not bothering to argue and question how Farlan, in spite of what they have seen, done and experienced, could still hone such a high sense of morality and humanity. The thought wanders around his head as he shrugs both his blazer and coat on. Perhaps it’s because of all those things that fuels Farlan’s empathy. Vaguely, he wonders when was the last time he pulled the trigger and felt remorse after.

“Safe on your ways, boys.” Jill, the barmaid, calls after them as they step out of the cubicle; a small smile etched on her face as she wipes the counter. Though she was fairly younger than both Farlan and Levi, she seemed to take personal satisfaction in calling grown men _boys_. It was fairly harmless – though Farlan finds it odd to be addressed as Mr Church when he’s alone but included in the collective _‘boys’_ if he’s with others – they let her be. A few drunkards linger the bar, but otherwise it was the regular aftermath of a Sunday evening. Or, perhaps, Monday’s twilight. Not wanting to stay longer in the filth of the bar, Levi hastily steps out to the street without giving the barmaid any much of a glance.

“Always a pleasure each night, Jillian.” Farlan deposits a tip on the end of the counter before he runs out and catches up to Levi.

“Let them have what they took,” Farlan continues from their earlier conversation as falls into step beside him, voice carrying the smooth French into the midnight air, “we’ll tell Sargent Caldwell we’ll be sending him double on the next shipment.” Levi opens his mouth to argue, wanting to tell him that Caldwell was not the concern as he knew full well that a beat-up of a runner boy wasn’t enough to get the point across for the rookie gangs, but Farlan raises his hand and Levi hesitates, looking at the tired look etched on his face. “I know, Levi, but you know how these new _kids_ are with the likes of _us_. I’d rather not wage war with these scums, not now at least. We’ll let it pass.”

A sour look passes on Levi’s face before he sighs in defeat. “Sure,” He grumbles, casually slipping back to English as his hands deeply deposited in his pockets as the bleak night engulfs them. “but you better fucking pay for that shit yourself.” Farlan’s laughs fill the empty air as they walked their way to the Crossley.

It was mid in the year and even though they barely had rainfall, the air was colder than their bath without heater.

“Wha’d ya know, Levi?” Farlan comments casually, “Seven years, eh? Ain’t that funny.”

Levi scoffs, his eyes rolling as Farlan amusedly nudges his shoulder. “Stop that, you’re talking like the dock boys.”

“Yeah, but you have to admit, we’ve gone far.”

Levi considers Farlan’s words. Seven years was quite the long shot so perhaps, yes, they have.

The Liverpudlians weren’t happy to welcome immigrants as anyone who received the aftermath of the war; that said, the treatment to their arrival was no different. Farlan wasn’t an immigrant, but having grown up in the middle parts of London, he was treated as such. More often than not, Levi would be graced with an old drunk or two’s slurred words about how England shouldn’t be harboring immigrants as they didn’t even have enough labor for their own veterans. It was no surprise to Levi, and for a while he was fine with letting it pass the other ear, but of course, when he’s had enough, he implicitly expressed that he’s had his fair shares of the battles in France—leaving that thought in the air to let them wonder about explicit details.

As years went by, their settlement gradually became easier, sans the occasional trouble when new officers shuffled in the immigration. Levi learned to mask the majority of his accent over the years; blending in and getting by. But that never meant trouble was too far behind, not with his line of work and backround. And Levi knows he’s never going to relax until he has made sure his son has legally settled.

There was a moment of silence as Levi regathers his thoughts, now thinking of the Church family and their small business in Essex. His eye catches the flare of Farlan’s heirloom ring. “You wouldn’t have to win the natives if you’d stayed in London,”

Farlan hums, and Levi half expects him to dismiss his words like he usually does, but after a moment, he replies, “Nah, I’m good with how it is here. Love the job, really.”

Levi snorts, pulling his shoulders up to conceal his neck from the assaulting cold air. “Which one? Smuggling, bounty hunting or keeping to the docks?”

“Better than kissing the upper-class’ ass.” Farlan counters.

They laugh, and Levi wonders how long ago was the last time they joked casually. Probably a few weeks ago, before he was called in the Immigration Office to have his passes re-stamped, though there was no law that says there was a need to, but Levi, with a reluctant Isabel, always entertains them with it, no doubt it was another attempt of the Metropolitan Police to rid anyone who was in the Riess’ payroll.

“Henri’s the first thing we ever smuggled,” Farlan flashes a smirk his way as they turn around the corner of Dale Street, right where they parked the car. “Kenny didn’t even make that much of a fuss.”

He nods in agreement. Maybe it _was_ quite long ago, when he first stepped foot in English land. It was a fairly cloudy day, he recalls; their arrival was delayed, much to Kenny’s irritation. Henri was barely 6 months old at the time, obediently staying quiet in Levi’s hand luggage. It was amusing to see Uri, all with that seemingly soft smile of his, at the harbor; talking to an Immigration Officer and slipping something as they shook hands. _Funny_ , Levi recalls thinking, _how money seems to fix everything these days._ His and Isabel’s passport were stamped with no questions that day.

“Yeah, but I need _proper_ credentials for Henri, not these temporary shit stains,” He reminds Farlan, the familiar swell of frustration building up his chest as they near the car. “Fucking racist bastards in the Immigration. It’d be a joy to them to catch an alien living for years with no passport.”

“Haven’t reconsidered asking for Uri’s help?”

Levi has reconsidered the idea countless times, but on every single time, he has never budged from a firm negative. The thought of his son getting tied into a deal that he did not sign up for makes Levi hate himself. “I tell you, Uri sees Henri as family, but if he’s going to work for his documents, Henri’s going to be working for him until Uri’s a cold corpse. You know him, business remains business.” Levi shakes his head, “And I don’t want that for my son, over my dead fucking body.”

Silence follows as they made their way, Levi catches the sight of a man deep in an alley way, a pair of kneeling legs before him and a glimpse of a coat and a beret peaking behind the man’s towering form, the familiar built popping a recognition in his mind. Suddenly, Levi remembers France and a brothel and why he’d rather not spend his nights with any companion. He also remembers drunken slurs of the hate for the problematic men. He looks away, thinking of the irony that accompanies certain male egotism.

“This is a deathtrap,” Farlan admonishes as he enters the car. Levi hops in the driver’s seat turns the key in the ignition slot, starting it. “Do you know how many people has died using this shit so far? By the end of the year, it’s going to kill more people than the troops did in Somme.”

“You can always walk, Farlan.”

Farlan snorts. “Like that’s an option.”

The drive back to the suburbs was fairly quiet; with Levi concentrating on the dim roads as he drove and Farlan watching the blur of the streets. By the time Farlan retreats to his apartment beside Levi, it was already half past one in the morning. He enters the apartment as quietly as he can, not wanting to wake up neither Henri nor Isabel, who he assumes has slept in their spare bedroom. He wipes the soles of his dress shoes on the doormat and treads his way across the hall, entering the sitting room to deposit his coat and silently climbs his way up the stairs. The wooden planes creaks as he steps into the second floor and walks his way to his son’s room, where the door was left half open. He gingerly pushes the door and walks inside.

His son sleeps on his stomach, silk raven hair spreads neatly on the mattress. He lays above the comforter; his socks still left on and his shirt still tucked. The freckles that dusts his cheeks seemed much more prominent in the darkness of the room. Levi glances on the working desk situated beside his bed and sees the open geography book that Uri has gifted him. His son probably wanted to wait up, reading the book to pass time before deciding to sleep. A hot pang of guilt hits Levi’s chest.

Levi walks towards the drawer and pulls out a tee before silently closing it. He walks to his son, taking both of his socks off and softly shaking him awake. His son stirs, eyes fluttering open as he rubs them softly; dark sleepy grey eyes meets Levi.

“Hi, papa.”

“Hey, you,” He brushes the hair that falls on Henri’s forehead. “Fun day?”

His son nods, “We went to the library and then to the park. I played with Mrs. Collin’s children there. We didn’t fight.”

Levi resists a snort. As it was, his son was too honest and his honesty doesn’t exactly play with others’ temper. “That’s a great achievement, Henri.”

His son shoots him an accusing gaze, at least, the best he could do with his sleep painted eyes. “You’re making fun of me, papa.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

He lets Levi tug the tucked shirt over his head and dress him. Though Levi would love to demand his son to take a shower, the boy seemed too sleepy to walk steadily. He ushers Henri under the covers and smoothens the linen before sitting beside his son. Levi waits patiently in the comforting silence, the silent question lingers in the air as his son visibly takes a deep breath, perhaps building his courage before releasing it in a defeating sigh.

“I spilt hot coco on your shirt,” The little boy confesses, eyes sleepily gazing at Levi yet his drawn brows showcase his wariness. “I couldn’t get the stain off, and neither could Auntie Isabel. I’m sorry, papa.”

Having grown up in Liverpool, Henri’s accent is far off of Levi’s, though he has caught a tinge of it.

“It’s okay,” Levi reassures, “I’ll fix it, okay? Sleep, brat.” He plants a kiss on his son’s temple, making the little boy smile shyly before further burying himself in the comfort of the pillows and gracing Levi with “G’night, papa.”

As he steps out of his son’s room, today’s exhaustion crashes to him like a tidal wave. Today, Kenny’s had him running around the clock, and as much as he wanted to spend the weekend with his son, he can’t say no to Kenny, not when Uri asked for it. He toes his shoes and socks off, placing them on the rack at the end of the hallway. His shoulders sags as enter his room. He removes his holster from his hip, carefully placing his revolver in the locked drawer of his dresser. He makes his way towards the bathroom, undresses and reluctantly deposits his clothes in the hamper. _Tomorrow,_ he reminds himself, _I’ll wash them tomorrow._ He dismisses the nagging protest in his mind as he draws a warm bath. He steps into it; easing as slowly as he could in hopes to relax.

He wonders about his stained shirt. _So, he_ did _do something._ Levi was past the angry reprimand, as Henri, in his clumsiness, always admits his faults; always fully prepared to take responsibility. A shirt was nothing too bad of a mishap; it was better than breaking furniture or some other kid’s face.

Thirty minutes later he slips out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He quickly dresses into his night garments before throwing himself on the bed. His exhaustion seeps deep into his bones and the comfort of the bed was so _welcoming_ he could almost feel himself drift into yet another dreamless sleep.

Levi rolls on this back and stares at the ceiling, the softness of his mattress giving a relaxing sensation on his back. He thinks of ways to get the papers for his son quickly. The thoughts of wanting to admit Henri to school as he’s now two years behind lingers around his mind, before falling into a short-lived sleep.

The days roll by fast and Wednesday comes as smoothly as it could in the borough. He slips his garments on with meticulous care; practiced fingers going over the buttons of his white button-up, dark trousers and waistcoat and strapping his braces and chest holsters in place. Vaguely, he remembers being twenty-two, buttoning up the pale-blue regimental uniform and pulling on his gaiters along with the ridiculously heavy helmet. He dismisses the memory with a scowl thrown at his reflection as he fixes his ties.

Right after a generous breakfast of tea, toast, bacons and eggs, accompanied by the insistent chatter of his seven year old about the kids in the Everton, a loud honk disrupts the air just as Levi slips his blazer on.

“It’s Uncle Kenny!” His son bellow, hastily tying the laces of his leather shoes as he grabbed the sling-bag filled with snacks before racing towards the door, yanking it open, running and throwing himself to the tall, lanky figure standing beside a Bentley, rambling his excitement for the football game Kenny is dragging him to.

Levi picks up his son’s beret before walking out and locking the door behind them. Farlan was already sitting in the Crossley, a copy of today’s issue of _The Daily Mail_ in his hands. Levi makes his way towards Kenny, depositing the beret on his son’s head and ushering him towards Kenny’s car. They watch as Henri mocks a salute, before dashing.

“He seems getting bigger by the day.” Kenny comments, eyes glued to the little boy who sits himself in the passenger’s seat.

Levi grunts, tapping a cigarette out of its pack and lighting it; not bothering to offer Kenny one. “This new gang has been causing trouble. They nipped two crates for the Sargent. Farlan’s paying replacements.”

“And did you show ‘em how it works in those parts?”

Levi nods, not wanting Kenny to know that Farlan chose a softer option to get the point across. He’d rather not hear what Kenny has to say about it; not when his son is within hearing distance.

“Gibbs will be stationing out there as well.” Kenny continues, turning from Levi and making his way to his car. “We’re dropping those who stopped for the strike. There’s a lot lining up for the jobs, we can’t stop because these fuckers decided to stop working.”

Levi simply nods, slowly making his way to the Crossley, “Don’t get Henri too excited. And bring ‘im back on time.”

Kenny waves a dismissive hand as he rounds his car and hopped in the driver’s seat. This was a normal thing for years now; Kenny bringing Henri along to have fun. Levi was grateful and as he trusted Kenny with his son’s life, he still can’t help feeling a little scared; scared that Henri will be taken away.

As the engine starts, the little boy sticks his head and his right arm out; waving nonchalantly with a big smile on his freckle dusted face. His left hand holds his beret in place as the soft wind blows; his clear grey eyes shine brightly in the cloudy light of Liverpool’s morning. “Bye, Papa! Bye, Uncle Farlan!”

Levi shoots a disapproving look towards his son, which was blatantly ignored and only seems to widen his smile, before snapping, “Get your head back inside, _brat_.”

Kenny leaves the driveway as Levi enters his car with a slam. He blows a cloud of smoke as he fishes his keys out.

“Look at this,” Farlan nods to an article in the news. “It took a fat arse strike for parliament to take their heads out of the grovel and listen. I would’ve done it _years_ ago with the industrialization before the war, if not for the risk of getting beat by the MP. I bet Uri’s getting a budget cut because of this.”

“Uri’s a generous employer, you and I know that.” Levi replies, turning the key in the ignition and backs out of the driveway, “I’m sure he’s not that bothered.”

“Yeah, but the strikers are refusing to work at the depot, money’s going down in that end.”

Levi grunts. “Then the vacancies are open. I’m sure we still have a few servicemen looking for a job. Kenny’s putting Gibbs down the docks, by the way.”

Farlan hums in reply and Levi makes his way towards Sydney Road. Today they were supposed to check a few incoming shipments down the docks from the west supplier. Sometimes Levi feels like they’re treading in very thin ice with doing rounds and making counts in broad daylight, but he remembers Uri’s business permit; and what a good cover business it was.

He pulls up in front of the _Eightieth Bar_ and shuts the engine.

“I’ll go get the list.” He tells Farlan, who grunts in reply and focuses his attention

Levi jogs towards the bar, but something catches his eyes. Parked a few meters ahead of him was a car that he doesn’t recognize and it sends a familiar chilling tingle down his spine, but he dismisses it. He puts his cigarette out on the pavement and enters the bar, which was fairly empty. Of course, it was. It wasn’t even thirty to nine in the morning. As usual, a few greetings were sent his way, to which he responded with a nod.

As Levi crosses the distance from the doors to the hallway, a voice stops him.

“Mr Ackerman,” Jill calls, a nervous look etched on her face as she stood behind the counter. “There’s a man and a woman in the cubicle waiting for you. Urgent business, they said.”


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tu t’es battu au front? – You fought at front?  
> Parlez-vous anglais? – Do you speak English?  
> Vous avez faim? Tu as soif? – Are you hungry? Thirsty?  
> Qu-est-ce que c’est? – What is it?

_1926 London, England_

England was fortress to work with and London was the center of the play. The historic streets bleed with filth and crime; an unstoppable infection to politics, economics and industry. London’s underground was unstoppable, hiding in plain sight. It was a place where people, even half the authorities, blatantly turn a blind eye. Erwin wouldn’t be surprised if he shot a man and got away with it. The way the city has been wrapped around the cartel’s fingers enthralls him. Chicago was only a matter of time.

Erwin Smith was a man of power, there was no denying that and he was fully aware. From influential business fronts in Chicago’s central, to the cartels in the docks of Boston waters, all towards connections in the state seats and _friends_ in parliamentary cabinets. He had authority, people and territory; influence in ways nobody would suspect him to be a part of underground transactions. Truly, Erwin could accomplish anything with a snap of his fingers.

But Erwin was a tactician, and he knew that running with his bathing suit on unfamiliar ground was, perhaps, the _best_ tactic for him to be clipped six feet under. After all, territory was territory; and London was not his. As much as his connections run the streets, nobody wants people who does not know their place.

Though it was hardly past nine in London’s morning and he gazes at the rich brown hues of his scotch with a thoughtful look as he contemplates his strategy. It was loose and dirty, that he could admit; threatening a man with a threat that was either insignificant or could jeopardize the years of said man’s efforts. He was honing for the latter end, as he needed him for his talents. At least, that’s what the files would say.

 _“Seven… going eight years.”_ Mike’s words echo around the back of his mind, _“The immigration record is a close match with the disappearance. 1918, it says.”_

Erwin sets his glass down as he picks up the file of the report. It was a gamble, of course. For all he knows, the lost Captain is dead and this was merely a man with the same name. But it was a shady coincidence; to have a man arrive at England a year after the filed disappearance; a man, who happens to have the same name as the reported missing 4th Army Captain Levi Ackerman.

He flits through the pages and settles on the clipped portrait of the Captain. The sharp features on his face were as evident as the darkness of the mane of raven hair that settles below his regiment helmet. His eyes were dark slits of grey, glaring at a distance. The man was fairly young, yet has acquired an impressive position. It was safe to assume that his talents were indeed special, which was exactly what he was after.

_Captain Ackerman, not found amongst soldiers at the western front **.** Missing. Presumed dead._

He places the file back down, contemplating. He doubts it was the fear of death, whatever it was he abandoned the war for. With a position like his, moving to England _after_ the war would not have posed a problem. _So, what exactly was it?_

The question lingers his thoughts as he resumes his preparation for the day.

The thought still hovers his mind as Mike and Nanaba return at exactly the thirteenth hour.

Erwin sits behind the mahogany desk; his crisp three-piece-suit elegant and with a neat style of his hair. Today’s agenda was _fetching_ the man; seeing, confirming and observing. A task in which he could trust Mike with. Erwin could not do so himself, there still were pressing matters to think over. His eyes scan the letter from an unnamed source. Angry, the tone of the words seems, yet Erwin knows perfectly well who it was from. Only Nile would be bold enough to address him with the word _‘bastard’_. He sets the letter down as he lifts another glass of scotch towards his lips. By now, the burn was more comforting than women from the Everleigh Club. Not that he’s indulged in their services for a while, now.

It was only when the door to his hotel suite did Erwin look to gaze at them. Freshly arrived, they seemed to be. Though, Nanaba was looking to be quite in the mood. He does not know what to expect when he hesitantly asks, “How did it go?”

The question was delivered soft, with a friendly undertone. Mike is a close friend and confidant and Nana his soon to be wife. He doesn’t feel the need to pull authority around them. At least, never during moments like these.

It was Nanaba who voices first; spitting fire as she does.

“Oh, he’s just _charming_ , wasn’t he, Mike?” She spits as she fixes the straps of her hip holsters. As she finishes, she sits herself on one of the room’s armchair. “One would think he’s _Irish_ with that vulgarity. I thought the Brits were supposed to be _polite_?”

“He’s French, Nana.” Mike spoke next, hands clasped behind his back and eyes shining with amusement as he shifted his gaze to meet Erwin’s, “He seemed reluctant at first. I believe _‘the American can fuck off with their dirty cards’_ because he _‘wasn’t in the mood to get dragged in the mud of air-headed sissies’_ was what he said, Commander.”

Erwin’s brows furrows. He was expecting something indifferent, but nothing so impolitic. “So, was it really the Captain?”

“Yes,” Mike replies, the amusement has now allowed a smile to settle on his face as he stands behind Nanaba. “Doesn’t look like he aged a day, even.”

“Is that so?” His right hand absently twirls the glass of scotch in his hand as his thoughts run the possibilities that this whole ordeal would result to. Though he was confident of the outcome of this _marksman_ employment gamble, he wasn’t a mind reader. He didn’t know the man himself and he couldn’t read anything from the straw grasped files he’s been given. “How else was he?”

“He was pissed,” Nanaba continues, glaring at a random point at the wall, “Probably doesn’t want aliens barging in his life. He recognized our accents quickly, and he just glared harder as Mike talked.”

Mike cuts through her words with a hand on her shoulder as he said, “Probably because of the soldiers in the war. He seemed interested when we told him that the price was his to set, though.”

Erwin hums, hands steepled together over his desk. Interesting. Expressing his despise of doing the laundry of others, but bends for a price. What was it the man wanted, to be considering a job from an unusual capitalist? “I see. So, I take it, I could expect he attends the meeting?”

“Yes,” Mike replies. He nods at the opened letter, “What’s that?”

Mikes sudden change of subject doesn’t get past Erwin, but he decides to inquire of it later. “Nile sends his regards. It seems Nikolas is not very happy about this little adventure. He’s questioning my allegiance with the outfit.”

Nanaba turns to look at Erwin, a puzzled look on her face. “ _Heneral?_ But he hasn’t sat four weeks in. Business outside the outfit shouldn’t be any of his concern, right?”

“Yes, but people could be testy when were touching unfamiliar waters. I suppose Nikolas _worries_ that this would result to unwanted attention his way.”

“But this _isn’t_ business about for the family, right, Erwin?” Mike asks.

“He doesn’t know that.” _Nobody does, nor has anybody had half the mind to realize such._

“Even so,” Nanaba interjects, her brows furrow in either agitation or irritation, Erwin doesn’t know, “Not everything should be transparent, especially if it does not concern the allegiance.”

Erwin waves a hand nonchalantly as he sighs heavily. “Well, you know, _kids._ ”

“He is but a fool who revels in attention like a spoiled brat,” Nanaba mutters. “He likes to flaunts the bloodshed. Sir Jack handled the outfit so much better.

Jack Rossi was quite formidable, yes. Erwin has always appreciated his clean operations, subtle business transactions and efforts to put together the members of the outfit. Unfortunately, as it appears, he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was, and the CPD just had more than enough to put him up behind the bars. Though, Erwin wonders if the man will resume his place once he gets into the clear. Erwin wasn’t against Nikolas, but he wasn’t so fond of him either, and, as always, he could do without the press attention.

Mike stares at a spot past Erwin’s head thoughtfully, “The Giovanni’s seem put off by it as well, but they’re keeping it in.”

“Of course, they are. There’s too much on the line.”

Perhaps Erwin ought to take heed of Nile’s words; this was the entire family’s neck down the gallows. Of course, he knew, that those who did not know his intentions would automatically assume his disloyalty. But that was the nature of a heavy endgame on its first term, and if they had half the brain, maybe they would see that this was not any of the sort. Time and time again, Erwin has done what was necessary for the family to run its course. Indeed, there was too much on the line, perchance too much for most to gamble with. But Erwin was not a man like most, and he intends to see though this path until he’s satisfied.

It was a private room at _The Langham_ ’s restaurant that Erwin arranges the meeting to be held at. A familiar aria fills the silences that lulls Erwin in relaxation in the dim lights. _On the twentieth hour_ , he instructs Mike to rely. As far as he was informed, they weren’t granted with any form of reply, just a crushed bud and a door being slammed. So, Erwin sits and wonders if the man would truly come around as the time to ticks by. It was two minutes to the twentieth hour, according to his hand watch. Erwin was a patient man, and no hope was lost if he was merely a few minutes early.

Mike stands guard by the entrance of the room along with a recruit that Erwin was yet to meet. There were others lurking about of course. Erwin wasn’t a man of grand gestures; it would be rude to invite and show up to a dinner meeting with one too many extras than what was necessary. That wasn’t the form of intimidation he practiced. And it was better to keep most things in the dark.

The recruit looks young, yet impressively tall. Englishmen seem to have that in their genes. Erwin twirls the liquid of yet another glass of scotch in his hand. He has lost count of how many he’s had today. _Drinking myself into an early grave_ , he bitterly thinks, _just like Father._

He wonders how long he has to wait. He was a patient man, but he has equally curious. _There’s something off about him_ , He recalls Mike’s words from after their meet with Nanaba, _something he’s hiding._ If anything, that spiked up Erwin’s curiosity.

At exactly the twentieth hour, when Erwin was about to hum along the notes of the _Bach’s_ composition, that the doors open and in strides a man in dark blazer, vest and slacks, who sits himself opposite Erwin.

Erwin blinks, momentarily taken aback but doesn’t show. By Mike’s unbothered demeanor, he concludes that _this_ was Captain Levi Ackerman. He must admit, the man was shorter than he imagined; though, his imagination was not any help as there wasn’t many men that he knew was below five foot seven.

The silence was eerie. Erwin’s gaze flickers towards Mike, who remains to look impassive, but there was a ghost of a smirk that shadows his face. He wonders about Nanaba’s contempt earlier in the day.

Erwin tilts his head by a centimeter, regarding the irritated man with obscured interest. This was not how he pictured the meeting to start, no it really wasn’t. Whatever Erwin was expecting, it wasn’t the pale suit clad man before him. His hair was styled with a neat undercut; bangs falling casually before his eyes. It was much, much different than the standard military cut that he wears on the report’s portrait. And his eyes – dark gunmetal orbs – held hatred that did no match for anyone who served war.

The man did not seem like an army captain who fought and killed hundreds of soldiers; flitting from the front lines to the river troops. Perhaps seven years _did_ do him some good. _But why,_ he wonders.

He might as well start to test the tides of the man.

“ _4 re Armée Capitaine Levi Ackerman, non?_” They slip out of Erwin’s mouth smoothly, not a word out of place. It was simple; stirring up something that Levi had left from, something he obviously did not want to bring up. It was a risk, obviously, but neither of them was in familiar territory and he knows that, if the man was smart enough to hide, he was enough not to wave the wrong colors. “ _Tu t’es battu au front_?”

The man’s eyes narrowed and his scowl deepens; gunmetal orbs swirling with irritation. Irritation or anger, Erwin couldn’t tell. But it was a sign; a good one at that. The man is in hiding, he does not want anything that happened _France_ to be brought up. Erwin holds back a smirk; this was one leverage against him. There was a cloud of smoke before the man replied.

“So, you speak French. Fucking great,” The man opts to spat, fingers drumming a steady beat on the pristine table cloth. _A habit,_ Erwin interests, _or a sign to a fading temper?_ “ _Parlez-vous anglais?_ Because that’s what I would expect from an American.” The man finishes.

Erwin gives him a tight yet genuine smile, “I was hoping we could proceed with this on a civilized manner, Captain. There is no need for tension. At least, that’s what I was aiming for.”

The man stares at him, contemplating his words over. Erwin keeps his face straight and professional. In contrast to him, the man held quite the temper. But eventually, the man relaxes just a bit and breaks the silence that has fallen between them.

“Tell me,” the man starts once more, dusting the arms of his blazer nonchalantly. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his blazer, takes one out and sets it on the corner of his mouth. He pulls out a zippo, the silver glinting despite the dim light, and lights his cigarette. The man takes a deep nip from the drag, raises his bored eyes to Erwin’s as he continues, “are you _Commander Smith?_ ”

 _Concealed,_ Erwin observes. The man’s accent was expertly masked and adjusted to that of the borough he resides in. And his voice was surprisingly deep. Erwin doesn’t know why he expected to hear otherwise. He waves a hand to signal an ash tray to be brought as he regards the man.

“Commander is a title that I did not earn. I simply inherited.” He replies. Was it Mike who referred to the title when he spoke to him?

“Well, you fit the fucking role,” The man counters, irritation dripping from his tone, “You seem to enjoy commanding _business associates_ for meetings. Odd, how things work in America.”

Curious, that’s what Erwin was. The man was not interested in faking a friendly face and neither was he bothering to conceal his annoyance for this matter. He has bite, that Erwin gives. Nanaba’s disapproval seems to be understandable now. He wonders if the man works by the docks or elsewhere. He smokes quite alarmingly, the tobacco turning to ash fairly quick. But still, how the man harbors no fear for angering a man who was surrounded with armed personnel was beyond him; was the man brave or was he simply a fool?

Or perhaps it was because Erwin does not seem that at all intimidating for him.

Erwin decides to test it once more, enjoying the valor of a man who was not afraid to get gunned down. “ _Vous avez faim? Tu as soif?_ ”

“No,” The man cuts, a contradicting denial on Erwin’s inquiry as the man proceeds to scan the menu. “ _Qu-est-ce que c’est?_ What the fuck do you want from me, _Américain_?”

There was a pause as Erwin regards him, “You _are_ Captain Ackerman, aren’t you?”

The man clicks his tongue sourly as a waiter approaches and settles his glass of _Pinot Noir_. He asks Levi of his order and Erwin patiently watches as he lists his orders – a dish on Venison – before crushing the bud of his cigarette on the ash tray as he responds, “Why ask things you already know, Commander?” He takes a generous gulp from his glass, eyes glaring fires at Erwin. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we? You send your men to propose an equivocal proposition that’s coated with vague baiting and not-so-subtle warnings. But here I am. What is it you want?”

But Erwin was curious; he doesn’t amuse the man’s inquiry. “Where are your ranks? Medals?”

There was an irritated twitch on the man’s eyebrows as he says monotonously, “Down the Mersey.”

At Erwin’s confused stare, the man continues, “It seems a thing for common men to throw what they don’t want to remember down the waters of the land they fought for.”

“But you did not fight for England.” Erwin counters.

“Neither did I fight for France.”

 _Not for France?_ Erwin could laugh. For a man to have stayed with the war, raged with a platoon of men and earned a position such as his, it was impossible to believe the man to not have fought for his country. But then again, he did desert on the last push. There was no record of kinships in the file, so if not for his country, not for himself, then what? _What is it exactly does he fight for?_

Perhaps the man did not take pleasure in idle, gentle approach to dirty business. The man did not want to loosen the tension. In fact, he seemed to be the tension. Erwin would have wanted to make a comment had it not been for the man’s blank yet irritated stare. A man of business, then; gone was the soldier, though Erwin wonders why he expected otherwise. _So be it._

“ _France_ thinks you’re dead, not playing dock-gangs in England.” There’s a refined menace as he slowly drawls the words. It wasn’t uncommon for this line of work. “Searched, then presumed you dead. They believe you to have been blown to bits along with the soldiers you commanded.” He laughs, but the man doesn’t laugh with him. The man was tense, his eyes having widened a fraction. _There_ , Erwin thinks, _just one more_. “Imagine their faces if they find out you’re alive and kicking? I think they’d be rather… displeased.”

“It’s been almost eight years,” The man is sounding a tad bit frantic. Erwin raises his brows.

“You’d be surprised how long one holds grudges. I’m almost a hundred percent positive you’ll get the death penalty once you set foot on french soil.”

The short man snorts as he picks up the table napkin, harshly whacking it free form its folds before allowing it to dangle on the collar of his shirt, “I don’t have any intentions of returning to France.”

“But _France_ has every intention of _returning_ you up once word reaches base.”

Anger evidently rises within the man as the man straightens; tensing with apprehension. He glares at Erwin unflinchingly, harshly pulling out his pack once more and lighting another cigarette. “Whatever it is you need from me, I’m not killing some political man for you. I want nothing to do with the fucking war.”

Erwin chuckled deeply as he cuts a piece of his steak. “You should know, Captain, that politics is not the only thing that rouses a war. Business, in these times, is quite unpredictable. I’m sure England has their fair share of a crisis, no?”

The man slowly exhales a dark cloud. “And what it is you want from England?”

“This and that,” Erwin allows with a smile, mirth and mischief shining brightly with his ocean orbs, “ _Trade_ still booms nowadays. Liverpool seems lively with their armory business. Isn’t that right?”

The man remains skeptical as he smokes, assessing Erwin with narrow slits. “I came to England for a reason. Whatever France had, England didn’t.”

Erwin raises an eyebrow at this. He wonders if the man has truly convinced himself that he’s in a peace-filled land. Or perhaps it was something else? He finds it irritating that he cannot dissect what the man means. “Britain is in the constant state of war. _Business_ is _war_.”

“That’s another thing.”

“Business is a risk, Captain Ackerman,” Erwin counters, “Smuggling risks a war with the government, yet you contently work around them.” Erwin replies amusedly, taking a piece of his steak into his mouth and downing it with water.

It was quiet for quite some time; the clang of cutlery and the soprano of the aria filling the nude silence.

“I’m under the Riess’. Double crossing is not my thing.”

 _Yet you are here_ ¸ Erwin wants to say. Despite the evident rise of temper and hatred, the man was hard to read; for all he knew it could be a well put front. Truly, the man was volatile, to the point of hypocrisy. It’s interesting, but irritating. “The Riess are hardly a concern on my end. They’re not a mob.” He decides to reply, “But I’d rather the Riess’ not know about this transaction of ours. I have no plans for Liverpool. I’m sure you don’t want them knowing as well.”

“You talk about it like the gangs are nothing in England. By now, I’m sure Sabini has sniffed your scent around here.”

“Oh, I have no qualms with Sabini.” Erwin waves a casual hand, playing the nonchalance. “We do good business in New York.” Erwin knows, though, that an unannounced visit would irk the Italian, especially being allies with the Giovanni’s. “But these circumstances are special, so it is what it is, we can’t let any of them know. If the Riess’ find out your working with me, I doubt they’ll take it lightly. If _Sabini_ finds out on of the Riess’ rats are working with Americans, I doubt he would take that lightly as well.”

A muscle on the man’s chiseled jaw ticks, but he says nothing and proceeds to take a long drag. Clearly, he does not like to be called a rat. It makes Erwin laugh at how people hate to be addressed with the truth. Just what fairy tale did this man convince himself with? He forks a piece of steak in his mouth and chews. He swallows, taking a gulp from the table water, before he replies. 

“Rest Assured, Captain Ackerman, nobody knows of myself and my presence in England. I don’t work in the light much, no one recognizes my cartel. But, yes, it would simply take a few letters and rumors to rouse a conflict.” It was hypocritical of him to use the risk of exposure against the man. _Odd,_ Erwin thinks, _how common ground may only be seen on the lines of danger._

There was a moment of silence before the man responds, “Sure,” He says, the glare in his eyes never subsides as he sips his wine, “And stop fucking calling me captain.”

Erwin is intrigued, but still, he cannot make a proper judgement of the man. “Why did you come here?”

“I have my reasons,” The man’s words were hard and set. “I’m not going to ask you why you’re here, but I want to know why you need me. So, what do you want?”

“Your expertise, obviously.”

The man plays along, “What expertise?”

“I think you know what,” Erwin gives him a look as he finishes up his steak. He sips his scotch to down with the meat.

There was a hesitant pause, before he asks, “For what and how long?”

“Business. For the duration of my stay.”

The man looks as if he wanted to protest, but the doors opened and his food was placed before him. He shoots Erwin a condescending glare, putting out his cigarette on the ash tray once more before he proceeds to eat. Erwin must admit, this was far more interesting than what he initially expected it to be. The man was hard pressed and quite hard to move about, but everyone caves in for a price; and Erwin wonders what it is the man wants.

Halfway through his meal, as if the man read his thoughts, he asks, “Is the payment assured?”

It occurs to Erwin that the man was yet to name his price. Perhaps he thought he did, as the question seemed tight; as if whatever it was, was something hard to acquire. It strokes Erwin’s curiosity once more. “I’m not god, Captain. I would have to know what it is you want before I can say if I can provide them.”

Irritate, the man clicks his tongue, and shoves a hefty piece of venison in his mouth, “Then I want two things.”

 _Oh?_ Interesting how reluctant people can be quite demanding. “By all means, name your price.”

“I want citizenship. Hospital registration, proof of residence eligibility, records and whatever is necessary for a person to be called an English Citizen.”

 _English Citizenship?_ “For yourself?” Erwin questions, his hand running along his jaw as he leans back and thinks the captain’s words over. “From what I’ve gathered, your immigration has long been approved, so I see no problem. I believe the Riess’ made sure of that. As for citizenship… you have a few years left for naturalization. Why rush it now?”

The man remains silent as he stares at Erwin, who patiently waits for an answer. But the silence stretches a minute too long. Two, three, four… Erwin sighs, “Very well, I shall use the information we have of yo—”

“No,” The man’s denial cuts Erwin’s words, his tone curt, “They’re not for me.”

“Oh? Then who are they for?”

“None’a your fucking business.” The man snaps, eyes ablaze as he reaches for his wine. “I’ll give the name if you’re getting it in place already.”

Erwin mulls over the man’s sudden outburst. _A lover, perhaps? From France?_ Erwin could laugh. So, did the captain not fight the war for France, but for a lover? And did he leave the war for the said lover? Was this what Mike told him about, what he’s _hiding_? How cowardly. But the theory was interesting. After all, business was business. He gazes at Mike for a second, a silent command relayed with a single look. Mike nods, understanding the task as he has probably seen the man’s sudden change of demeanor. _Find out who this was._ The more cards on the table, the wider the variety of outcomes. The more leverage, the better the job. _Insurance_. “I see. And the other condition?”

The man did not blink, and there was a hardness that coats his gaze. “Cover my tracks, keep my name out of the records. Like you said, I have a few years left before I can file for naturalization. I need everything clear. The Brits don’t need to know who I was and I don’t need their intervention considering their _solid companionship_ with France.”

 _Smart_ , Erwin thinks. He knew he was not being entirely subtle with the threats, and he did it on purpose. His strategy was dirty and, he supposes the man was too sharp to catch on everything. The freedom to choose was all but a front; a false sense of control that’s given to make them believe that by the end of the day, it was their choice. But it wasn’t and Levi knows the consequence if he so defies.

But, like Erwin said, the man was sharp. He’s demanding that his traces be covered, using Erwin’s leverage to his advantage. The man was aware of Erwin’s subtle threats of exposing his identity and he is making it blatantly obvious that he wants it out of the picture. Slowly, as his business with Erwin progresses. The man was giving himself a head start, and Erwin can’t be upset of being outwitted.

 _Interesting_ , he thinks, _how risks can easily be maneuvered to benefits._

There was something Erwin could not place his finger on about the man. There was a piece needed in the puzzle. Mike was right, there was something he was hiding, and Erwin knows it was something he could use. But that could be entertained at a latter date. For now, this was enough.

“So, what do you say?” Erwin settles his glass as he leans on the table; hands folded neatly together. Yes, this was not how Erwin expected the night to start, but it has definitely ended to his satisfaction. “Do we have a deal, _Mister_ Ackerman?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you have no idea how tempted i was to write Levi as a German instead. and i was about to use real bosses of the outfit and the famiglia’s, but i don’t want to be hunted down because i’m writing shit and i’m not that eager to die just yet. i used sabini’s because well he’s been mentioned in 1920s crime stories quite a lot.
> 
> i can’t give a definite schedule for the updates; that would be wishful thinking on my end and the pressure of it would cause my writer’s block. my concentration and thrill for this is really thriving as of the moment, though. so, i hope it doesn’t run out. you should see the first draft of this blasted chapter. i’ve never read something so horrendous before.  
> in case anyone was wondering, in the 1920s, the immigration procedures became stricter than it did in the 1918. with the war subsiding, Britain became warier of immigrants. during this time, they demanded lots of documents to prove nationality and all. most needed to get permission from the ministry of labour to get jobs and majority of the jobs are banned for immigrants. in that light, it’s hard to enrol immigrant kids in school with their background. what Levi needs is citizenship, registration and certified papers to pass that his son is a citizen of England with jus soli. this way, he is considered an Englishman despite both his parents being aliens, thus privileges like education is available for him (this is one of the reasons why people get dual-citizenship).
> 
> thank you for the kudos(es?) on the first chapter! i hope you enjoy this one just as much! tell me what you think, crabs. feedback is always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> hello, there. i finally gathered enough balls to post my fanfics. i’ve been writing for years but i don’t post because i either don’t have the confidence to post them or i was not able to finish them. so, here’s the trash.
> 
> I always find it hard to write on Levi’s perspective. I hope that wasn’t too much for a pilot chapter? let me know. (but wtf this was longer than i intended)
> 
> -fin


End file.
